Why? Halloween's just around the corner, so it's only appropriate I answer that question now, since the first (and only) time I spoke in front of a classroom full of students, it was altogether like a horror movie:

The call came into the office on a Friday afternoon. The teacher, from a nearby Catholic high school, wanted me to tell her ninth-grade students about the spectacular world of journalism. Her hope was that - after hearing me soliloquize on the boundless joys and wonders of writing for a newspaper - her students would set their sites high, aim for the stars, and maybe even do their creative writing homework for a change.

I know myself well, and one thing I know about myself is that I hate speaking in front of a group. I hate it, fear it, loathe it. I would prefer to watch 99 back-to-back episodes of American Idol rather than speak in front of a group, which should give you some idea of just how much I hate it.

But as a kid, I attended Catholic school and was conditioned early on to never say "no" to a nun. (It turns out very few nuns actually teach classes these days, but I didn't know this at the time.)

With some trepidation, I said, "Sure, sister." The teacher, recognizing in me a thoroughly indoctrinated Catholic, neglected to mention she was no more a nun than I am.

"Great," she said. "We'll see you Monday at 10 o'clock!"

That gave me the whole weekend to fret, agonize and worry over my upcoming speaking engagement. I did.

Monday dawned dark and drear. Low, charcoal-hued clouds scudded across an angry sky as I pulled my truck into the school's parking lot. A murder of fat, glossy crows hammered their wings against the autumn wind, sketching widening gyres around the forlorn, empty playground.

I pulled into an empty slot marked "school guests only," then sat for a moment, gathering my thoughts and my courage.

I approached the building, as a hunter might approach a wounded, but not yet dead, jaguar. The wind gusted my previously groomed hair into a mad, Einstein-like swirl, untucked my shirt, and covered my shoes in a thin layer of parking lot dust. By the time I opened the school door, I looked like a hobo begging for handouts.

The office secretary looked me over carefully before finally paging the teacher on the intercom.

The woman who appeared at the other end of the hall was pretty, middle-aged, with short blonde hair and a delicate, trim frame. She didn't look like a nun; not like the sturdy, blockish bastions of black-and-white I remembered from my own school days.

But nuns these days sometimes disguise themselves as civilians. My personal belief is they do this better to catch lapsed Catholics like me in the act of swearing, spitting, or doing any number of things the nuns used to catch me doing back in ninth grade. To this day, I hide my knuckles whenever I see a ruler.

"Sister," I said.

"Actually, it's Mrs. Palmer," the teacher said, smiling warmly.

"Oh," I said, realizing I could have said no to this speaking engagement after all. Too late now.

"The kids are looking forward to hearing from you," Mrs. Palmer enthused, leading me like a sacrificial lamb toward her classroom.

Have you ever seen the movie Children of the Corn? That was Mrs. Palmer's class. They stared, with huge, vacant eyes as I stumbled over my prepared message. They gazed blankly out the window, as if waiting for the monster from "behind the rows" to come lurching out and pull me into the darkness beyond.

The only time they showed any interest at all was when I inadvertently used the word "damn." That elicited several small gasps and a couple delighted chuckles. Adults in a classroom are not supposed to say "damn." I knew this, but I am not accustomed to speaking to kids and - in my flop-sweat, anxiety-stewed state - I forgot.

Somehow, I stumbled to the end of my talk and opened the floor to questions.

The first was, "How much do reporters make?"

Ah, finally, it was my turn to scare them.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or public speaking tips, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.